


The True Meaning of Christmas

by like_a_raven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_raven/pseuds/like_a_raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you get visited by three spirits.  Other times, you meet Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True Meaning of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to mountain_born for the beta.

CJ Allison neither honored Christmas nor kept it in her heart.

She'd had the incredible misfortune to be born – a month early – at precisely 11:55 pm on Christmas Eve. Her mother, giddy from exhaustion, the holiday, and (CJ suspected) an epidural, had named her first-born child in honor of the season.

Her younger brothers, born sensibly in March and August, were Thomas Nathan and Mark David.

Her name was Christmas Joy.

You'd go by CJ, too.

CJ's opinion of her namesake holiday steadily deteriorated with each of her birthdays, alternately forgotten, ignored, or (worst of all) combined with Christmas. She endured birthday presents in leftover Christmas paper, cakes shaped like trees, and parties none of her friends ever had time to attend.

It dropped even further when she graduated from college nd discovered that her very expensive and hard-earned philosophy degree qualified her for a glamorous life in retail. She worked in a sprawling department store, in the women's department, and counted down the days till January.

It was two weeks till Christmas. It had been an impossibly long day, even without having to stay for the store's extended holiday evening hours, and CJ wanted nothing but a pillow and her pajamas. Instead, she reluctantly allowed herself to be dragged out by her roommate for drinks when she finally got home. 

She wouldn't have gone, though, if she'd known Rachel was going to be there.

Rachel worked at the department store at the other end of the mall and owned something like forty-five Christmas sweaters. "The most beautiful thing happened at the store today," she said, and CJ preemptively ordered another drink.

"Yeah? What?" Genie asked.

"Well, this little boy with no coat and these worn-out clothes brought these shoes up to my register – really pretty, gold with beads on them and not exactly cheap. And he said he wanted to buy them for his mother, because she never got anything for herself, because she always made sure he and his little brother got things for Christmas. And he wanted to get her something this year because she's real sick, and the doctors said she wouldn't be with him much longer, and he wanted her to have something beautiful when she went to heaven and met Jesus."

Rachel paused, temporarily overcome by the emotion of her tale. CJ drained what was left in her first glass and started on her second.

"So, then," Rachel continued, "he told me he brought all the money he'd saved up, so he can buy these shoes, and he put $2.86 on the counter. And I had to tell him he didn't have enough. It just broke my heart. And then – then the man behind him in line _paid for the shoes_. So the little boy could give them to his mother. Isn't that just beautiful? It's the true meaning of Christmas, isn't it? Even you, CJ, have to agree."

"Yeah, I guess," CJ said, though privately she was wondering where this kid went to Sunday school that he thought Jesus would care about his mother's shoes being suitably fancy for heaven.

CJ gave the little boy and his mother and true meaning of Christmas no more thought at all . . . until the next day, when someone set a green cashmere scarf on the counter next to her register and announced, tremulously, that he wanted to buy it for his mother.

CJ looked down into the freckled face of a boy, maybe ten years old, with green eyes that looked just a little too sharp to match his tone of voice, and very well-worn clothes. 

He didn't give her time to say anything, just launched into his tale of woe – dying mother, never got anything for herself, needed a pretty scarf to wear to her heavenly homecoming.

CJ would give him this: he sold it. By the time he put $2.86 (in change) on the counter next to the scarf and looked at her with an impressively hopeful expression, the woman in line behind him was tearing up. CJ wasn't surprised at all when she whipped out her charge card to buy the scarf. 

The boy thanked the woman with the charge card five or six times while CJ wrapped up the scarf. 

"Here you go, sir," CJ said, handing the shopping bag to the little boy. "I'm sure it will look beautiful with your mother's shoes."

The boy startled for one split second – no more – then thanked her and booked it out of the store.

But he was waiting for her, by the door to the store, when she left that evening.

"How'd you know about the shoes?" asked the miniature con artist, without greeting or preamble.

"I know the person who sold them to you," CJ said. "She thought it was great example of the true meaning of Christmas."

He snorted. "Yeah? So how come you didn't tell that lady I was lying?" 

"Eh, you were entertaining," CJ said. "What's your name?"

"Dean," he said. "And you're CJ. It was on your nametag. What's CJ stand for?"

"So, Dean," CJ said, without answering his question, "what's the deal? You hit a different store every day, spin some sob story about your mom needing something pretty to wear to heaven – "

"Hey, people love that part," Dean said.

" – then return the items and pocket the cash?"

"Pretty much. Hey, we don't have much and I really do have a little brother who deserves a Christmas, all right?" 

"Look, kid, I'm not going to turn you in or anything, so relax. Just be careful. And if you're thinking of coming back here . . . make sure you come to my register."

Dean gave her a salute that was just a little too crisp to have been done by a ten-year old and set off across the parking lot.

She wasn't surprised when he turned up the next day. Or the one after that. In fact, watching him con his fellow shoppers quickly became her favorite part of her day. He was just so good at it: finding items just pricy enough to make it worth the effort and just fancy enough to be the sort of thing a boy would pick for his mother, shifting the performance a little based on the other shoppers, putting just the right amount of quaver in his voice as he produced his $2.86.

He was waiting for her again, as she left on her birthday (or, as the rest of the world called it, Christmas Eve).

"This is for you," he said, holding out a bag from the store. "'Cause it's your birthday and all."

"How do you know that?" CJ asked, taking the bag but not opening it.

"Broke into your break room, picked the lock on your locker, and looked at your driver's license in your wallet," he said easily. 

"What?!" CJ said, automatically reaching for her purse to check for her wallet.

"I didn't take anything," Dean said. "I wouldn't. Not from you."

CJ checked her wallet, anyway, but nothing seemed to be missing. "So why the hell did you break into my locker?"

"'Cause I wanted to know what CJ stood for and you wouldn't tell me," Dean said. "Christmas Joy, huh?"

"Well, there's a reason I go by CJ." 

"How come you don't just change it to like, Christine or something? I mean, sure, then you're named after a killer car, but at least it's not a dumb name. You should think about it."

"I'll take it under advisement," CJ said. 

"Good," Dean said. "And, um, thanks. For, you know, not turning me in and all."

"Sure," CJ said. "Merry Christmas, Dean. To you and your little brother."

"Merry Christmas." Dean looked at her for a second, and then nodded. "See you around or whatever," he said, and then turned up his collar and headed out into the night.

CJ opened the bag he'd left her with and found the green cashmere scarf.

It just might have been her best Christmas ever.


End file.
